


beyond the grid

by ricciardos



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Crack, Crime AU, Fluff, M/M, mentions of blood but nothing too graphic, probably a lot of self reflection, some might be pleased to know it has turned into a brocedes shrine apparently
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:48:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25610827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricciardos/pseuds/ricciardos
Summary: my short fic collection!
Relationships: Alexander Albon/George Russell, Lewis Hamilton/Nico Rosberg, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	1. yellow and black, on a surface of white (dr3)

It’s just one of those days where all he does- 

All he can do,

Is sit with his back against the wall, watching the people go by at the paddock. 

He’s sitting in the garage, in a position where he doesn’t want to be noticed, per se. He’s angled himself so the people walking in front of the garage won’t pay him a second glance, but those who _really_ want to talk to him would see him. 

Yellow and black overalls on a surface of white. 

You think they would see. 

The media hear, with their recording devices -- shoved up his face like a lifeline to success. 

(Which, in fairness, Daniel understands. They have a job to do, he has a job to do. They fight teeth and bone to get the story, he fights blood and sweat to reach the chequered flag.) 

The media write, with their pens always poised to take quotes. 

(Prepared to unleash a story about how Daniel has messed up _yet again_ in the Renault, and how he’s running out of time to get a World Driver’s Championship if he continues down the path of blown power units, overheating engines, and failure.) 

The media do all these things.

They show up at the frontier of motorsport, claiming to write analysis of every single driver and what goes on in their head before the race. They sing poetry about Max Verstappen, write a soliloquy for Ferrari, and a victory speech for Lewis Hamilton. 

The journalists, Daniel thinks, pick apart his every move, thinking they can read him inside and out. 

(Enough to publish a piece about him that gets mailed to half the world, brazenly titled the _Real Daniel Ricciardo_.) 

The media claims to see, but- 

You would think they see that Daniel Ricciardo is at his wits end, desperately wanting to be heard but at the same time, wondering how much he’s willing to let others hear.


	2. if not now, then when? (aa23/lh44)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> @justromandaydreams, this is for you -- thank you for the idea yesterday!  
> -
> 
> it is one thing to forgive, but another thing to be expected to forgive again 
> 
> (alex confronts his podium aggressor)

If he has the autonomy to be given a pen to write his own story, Alex is going to make sure it is filled with rage. 

His fingers tremble as he unzips his race suit, barely able to find the grip on the already slippery metal. He can feel the heat practically radiating off his chest, itching to burn a hole right through the man standing in front of him.

(People tell Alex that he is warm, kind, and genuine -- that he is the Sun.) 

They know sunshine in so many forms, but Alex is now showing them ultraviolet.

The kind that exists at a temperature well above warmth and acquaintance, shining in all its glory and radiance to a point where it burns. 

There is a hole at the side of his motorhome, the shape of his knuckles carved deep into the cavity wall. Alex decides he’ll paste a poster over it, or blame it on a rogue football kick. 

“I’m sorry.”

The man offers nothing more. 

Alex refuses to believe the man standing in front of him is a 6 time World Champion, his head tilted to the side slightly, palms clasped in front of him, poised to extend. 

(A gesture of what Alex wants to read as forgiveness, but what Alex is too tired to pick apart any further.) 

If he has the autonomy to be given a pen, to write his story, Alex is going to include a footnote about just how exhausting all-consuming rage can be. 

Somehow, Alex feels he has to give credit to Lewis, who has met his gaze and refuses to look away. 

He stands with the posture of a man who awaits condemnation by the court of law, but maintains his innocence until the execution. 

Someone who stands proud and tall, even as he awaits _Alex’s_ judgement. 

Alex, for his part, does not feel tall. 

In his mind’s eye, he is toeing the line between hatred, hollowness, and-

Forgiveness. 

(Even in the face of an apology that seems a little too late.) 

Is he expected to forgive then? An apology, no matter how sincere, and a penalty of 5 seconds? To make up for the career he has built for himself crumbling before his eyes? 

If he has the autonomy to be given a pen to write his own story, Alex is going to make sure it ends with a chapter on forgiveness, and the crushing pressure of being expected to forgive over and over again.


	3. fine line (nr6 x lh44)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> first line taken from richard siken's gorgeous poetry series, crush  
> (the name fine line was meant to re-create the serotonin in this little scene)

Lewis is with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell Nico that he loves him, but he loves him. 

They’ve driven out not too far from the race track, pulled over on the side of a road overlooking the expansive Barcelona scenery. Tired arms prop themselves onto the bonnet of the car, where two cans of Sprite lay unattended in the golden haze of the Barcelona light, carefully placed to make sure they don’t spill. 

(It’s Lewis' car, after all. Nico wouldn’t care less about his own.)

The fanfare has long stopped, and the grandstands that chanted their names now lay bare. Lewis has been crowned 2005 Euro Series Champion, and Nico has won the last race of the season. 

Nico’s hair sparkles in the afterglow of the golden light. Lewis can still see the champagne sparkling off the ends, the distinct smell of victory and happiness still radiating off Nico. He’s still talking Lewis’s ear off about his move on the last lap that moved him up to first place, and his hand gestures wildly. 

“And I did the latest braking I’ve ever done in my _life_ , and turned in at the last minute on the final chicane where he-”

Lewis looks at Nico amused as he makes a steering wheel with his hands and mirrors his last lap bravado. He chuckles as Nico makes a sudden jerk that almost causes him to fall off the bonnet, grabbing his arm just in time. 

Nico thwacks him across the head with the now empty Sprite can, and calls him an ass for laughing. Lewis only responds with a shy smile, and takes a sip of his own drink before patting Nico's knee in empathy. 

Lewis is on top of the world with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell Nico that he loves him, but he loves him.


	4. spin me a story, any story (nr6 x lh44)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is probably my favourite chapter yet! dedicated to @lily_anna for being brocedes trash lol (ngl they're growing on me)
> 
> [inspired by Richard siken!]

It is four o’clock, and we sit on the steps of the castle door. I ask you to spin me a story, any story. 

It is clear right from the start, you were destined to be the knight -- a brave knight with a sword of glass and an air of righteousness. There is no one to dispute the fact that this is your throne, and your kingdom to look upon. 

Tell me then, what am I? Who am I? 

Am I the villain in your story? The one who stands in the way of everything the kingdom is built upon? 

Am I then, the knight in your story? The one who you stand on equal footing with, and clutch hands with as we ride into battle? 

Let us move on. 

(Or not, because it seems this tale of you and I is incomplete. The storybook is strewn open and laying at my feet, burnt at the edges and torn down the center.)

Am I the dragon in your story? 

That seems far more fitting for the tale of two boys who believed they were bigger than the town they grew up, the karting leagues they raced in, the smell of gasoline and oil permanently stained on jeans and- 

I am the dragon in your story, because love fills the chasm too fiery and too fast for either of us. 

You tell me the night you get your seat that you are afraid, and that you are _terrified_ of taking the next step into racing. I promise that I will be there to catch you when you fall so that we can soar together, over the kingdom that we promise to call ours. 

(I forget to mention that the sky is not big enough for the both of us.) 

(We keep jostling wings, bumping into each other, and apologising until the apologies become tinged with the beginning of fury and sarcasm. The language of despair and above all, anger.) 

-

_The two Mercedes have gone into each other._

It is five o’clock, and we are falling down. 

-

I stand at the balcony of the infinite yet empty manor , overlooking the kingdom of burning bridges and shattered glass swords we used to call ours. 

(The air of righteousness is long gone, but yet you still appear the knight. Why is that?) 

It is six o’clock. Still, I beg you to read me a story. Any story. 

I beg you to read me a story where the kingdom is still ours for the taking, and one day we realise that the sky _was_ big enough for the two of us. 

_Nico?_ I ask. 

You do not answer.


	5. better man (aa23)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after hours and hours spent talking fic with @gertika (tumblr user mhakkinen), this is the ultimate product of a little alex hc (look out for her gang au coming soon! its a real banger i promise you)

The hour hand is pushing past three in the morning. Luckily for Alex, he’s almost done with _whatever_ the hell Fernando has asked him to do. 

After all, it's in the contract. Or more accurately -- the document he was given to sign 3 years back given his dire circumstances and even greater need for protection. 

(Alex runs fast, but the past runs faster. Sometimes, they even catch up to him.) 

(They lay a hand on his shoulder, yanking him back so violently he loses his balance and falls back into their grasp. He struggles and screams but they drag him silently back into the night, playing host to his memories and his mistakes.) 

The knife hilt feels especially heavy in Alex’s palm. He kicks the gravel beside the body lying in his way, just to shake the retching feeling he’s starting to get under his breath. 

_Thank god Fernando can’t see him now,_ Alex thinks weakly. The only bright side, if any, to this abandoned warehouse where he’s about to bury the fifth body this week. 

Frankly speaking, he can’t tell if he’s shaking from the adrenaline of the job or the ever present epiphany that this is his life now. 

(Though, he must say, a part of him finds it hilarious that he’s only freaking out 3 years into the job.)

At least, he has a family to come home to.

Or does he? 

He holds the hilt up to the light of the street lamp outside the warehouse, where there are engravings made. Almost out of habit, he moves his shaking fingers to trace each and every carving, memorising the way they curve and cut into the knife handle. 

_Chloe. Luca. Zoe._

It’s a reminder that even he has something, someone to come home to. Alex would even go so far as to say it was a symbol of hope -- that one day, he could waltz into Fernando’s makeshift set-up in the underground channels of Spain, and hand in his 2 weeks' resignation.

It’s all very idealistic. As idealistic as it gets being a member of the most prominent gang in the whole of Spain. 

The idea is so tantalizing that for a moment, he is transported back to the times of arguing with his siblings and packed after school lunches of Pad Thai by his mother. 

The idea is so tantalizing that for a moment, Alex forgets he is wanted in ten different countries across 3 different continents for murder. 

The idea is so tantalizing that now, looking at his bloodstained hands that haven’t stopped shaking, Alex doesn’t think about what his mother would say if she could see him now. 

“Richard? Richard are you there? We gotta go, man.” 

Footsteps hit the gravel. They come closer, closer, and closer. 

Alex grabs the hilt of his knife. He’s made aware of the blood that’s coming into contact with the engraved names of his family, and makes a mental note to wash it out later. 

_Here we go again._


	6. copacabana (aa23 x gr63)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> continuation from the previous crime au alex :-)

Funnily enough, even after tonight of all nights, the club looks relatively unchanged. The disco lights are still bouncing off the walls at dizzying speeds, there are untouched tequila shots on the counter, and the club music continues to erupt out of speakers. 

In fact, the only thing remotely out of place is the 7 or so men lying dead on the floor. 

Alex is disastrously close to freaking out. 

George is taking a look at the free alcohol behind the counter. 

“Mate, would you like tequila or brandy? In my opinion, the _whiskey_ here looks half decent.”

Alex looks at his partner across the room, and tries not to fling his knife right into his shoulder. 

There are 7 bodies on the floor. 

There were only supposed to be 2. 

Even in his laboured state of mind, Alex knows damn well that this is not good news for either of them. 

It wasn’t his fault per se. George just liked to remind him that it was very much his problem.

George, who by the way -- is pouring himself a second shot of Glenfiddich Whiskey, as Alex tries to figure out how to sort out this mess. 

Outside, the canal is wide enough to dump at least 4 bodies. With the monsoon season, they should be washed away by-

“Mate the tequila isn’t going to down itself.” George’s amused voice disrupts his entire train of thought, and Alex can only pray and wonder what bad karma has paired him with this twit. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, there are 7 dead bodies on the floor. Fernando is going to kill us.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, there is a _case_ full of free alcohol that awaits. And the owner wasn’t stingy with his choices either.”

Alex wrings his hands into his hair and tries not to mutter a curse there and then. Maybe something to do with having alcohol poisoning. 

“Will you shut up about the free alcohol? If you hadn’t pulled that shit with the machine gun, we wouldn’t be here right now!” 

“If I hadn’t pulled that shit with the machine gun, you wouldn’t be standing here right now.”

Alex takes the pillow on the sofa nearest to him and flings it with all his might towards George. George shrieks in indignation, and throws the remaining whiskey at Alex, taking care not to trip over the lifeless body on the floor. 

It’s pushing 4am. They are two grown men, one of which Alex cannot stand, playing tag in a club. 

Perhaps, even if Fernando does kill them for creating extra trouble, this isn’t the worst last memory to have.


	7. the A-team (vb77)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> im not sure why i can't gift this chapter, but @babypapaya, this one's for you! what better way to pay tribute to the masterpiece that is rallyfic + my favourite blueberry scene than to write a whole pre chapter to it lmao sorry if i messed up the timeline that was entirely my bad 
> 
> anyway hope u enjoy this KJDBIWDB apologies if it does your fic no justice ma'am

Almost 11 seasons into Formula 1, it’s a wonder that the reflection comes as late as it does. 

Are champions born or made? 

Really, it’s a question that transcends space and time. And well, Valtteri thinks, there are always arguments for both sides. 

_He watches as his ex-teammate rises from a platform, as the crowd chant his mantra like it’s the last time. Lewis closes his eyes, head slightly tilted to the sky. Valtteri thinks that he’s never seen anyone as poised for greatness, as fitting for the title of World Champion as Lewis is._

_There is a certain hunger in his eyes as Max demolishes punching bag after punching bag that it’s equal parts terrifying and mystifying. Max, despite being put on a pedestal his whole life, never achieving what he set out to do until last year. In this regard, perhaps it is easier to see him as a man of made and found opportunity, rather than born for greatness._

Valtteri comes to a conclusion that really, the underlying question is one that towers over him like the shadow of Lewis Hamilton and the legacy of the Silver Arrows. 

Will he ever be a champion? 

_Well why not,_ says Daniel, over a breakfast of blueberry pancakes in a shitty diner far far away from the Circuit of the Americas. _You’ve got the car for it. You’ve come close a couple times. You’re close now._

Valtteri can’t decide if it's the inconsistent texture of the pancakes, or the genuine sincerity in Daniel’s voice that makes his stomach churn. 

Valtteri Bottas, World Champion, 

_Huh._

-

Its 2021 when Lewis is crowned World Champion for the eighth time. The crowd screams his name one last time as he bows to retirement, a champion in every sense of the word. 

Valtteri watches the celebrations from his wrecked car in the Mercedes garage. The crushed rear wing remains tethered and abandoned, as the mechanics rush to the podium to be sprayed with champagne and revel in the presence of the greatest of all time. 

It’s almost poetic. Really, it is. 

Valtteri sitting alone in the darkness of the Mercedes garage, the only source of light the fireworks now lighting up the sky and the glare of the podium floodlights. 

There is a brief moment of solace. 

(Valtteri considers it to be a temporary respite before he has to climb himself out of the pits again, as the Silver Arrows soar above and beyond. With or without him.)

For the answer is glaringly clear, isn’t it? 

Champions are not born. Neither are they made. 

**_Breaking news -- Valtteri Bottas contract will NOT be renewed for the new season! Find out who’s replacing him, here on the latest episode of Beyond The Grid._ **

All that matters is that he will never be a World Champion again.


	8. inskinned, inksinned (dr63 x cl16)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i literally got this idea from watching dan speak french in that pierre teaches french rbr video i cant be held responsible KJDBIUNDIND

It is the morning after 30st August. 

It’s one of those odd, odd days where summer turns to autumn so quickly you barely notice it. The leaves curl up and turn brown, orange, red, yellow-

It’s also the fifth time this month that Charles has woken to a bed with no one beside him, except a notes on the bedside table. 

_**Last night was fun. Call me.** _

Call you? 

I don’t even remember your name. 

_**Let’s see each other again. I’ll be in town on-** _

Charles rolls his eyes as he crumples up the piece of paper, making a mental note to throw it in the recycling bin on the way out. Is there no one capable of even _acting_ like they didn’t have the emotional range of a teaspoon, that-

_**Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?** _

Charles scoffs. Really, it’s more of an encapsulation of his exasperation, amusement, and intrigue. 

(Last night. My god, last night.)

Charles remembers running fingertips over thigh tattoos with roses, knuckles with numbers, cupids on forearms. He remembers the stranger cooly whispering in his ear promises of a today, of a tomorrow, of a forever. He remembers the awful French he used at the bar, an Australian with likely no grasp of the French language except the worst pick-up line in history.

The apartment is empty now. The stranger’s jacket strewn on the floor hasn’t been picked up, but Charles notices that his own clothes have been folded in a corner of his room. 

Perhaps, Charles will return to the bar tonight. Just to see if he’s there. 

He needs his jacket back after all. 

(The bedside table note is folded carefully and placed into his wallet.)

He picks up his own pen and rips off a piece of paper from the notepad on his desk. In a corner, he scribbles a response, and tucks it into the pockets of the stranger’s jacket. 

_**Voulez-vous coucher avec moi?** _

_**Oui.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voulez-vous coucher avec moi? -- will you sleep with me? (in french)

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @ricciardo-and-gang! 
> 
> kudos and comments always appreciated :-)


End file.
